I longed to send them all to Eton and let them get flogged and
have to fag and be turned into children first, and then men. I asked the
fourteen year old Spleist boy to get me down a branch of blossom far up
on an apple tree, and for the world he wouldn't have rubbed his patent
leather boots, even if he had known how to hold on to reach so high. All
the children are old, more or less, and wearied with expensive toys and
every wish gratified. Only that they are more surrounded with servants
and governesses or go to school, numbers and numbers are like "Matilda"
on the ship. Out here there don't seem to be any children, or hardly
any, but those there are, I expect, are like everything else in the
West, free and growing. But there is one quality which seems exclusively
American, West or East, unbounded hospitality and kindly feeling, and
ever and always I shall think of them all as dear friends.
Perhaps I shall not be able to post a letter again for some days, Mamma,
but good-night now, and fond love from,
Your affectionate daughter,
ELIZABETH.
CAMP OF MOONBEAMS
NEVADA HOTEL,
CAMP OF MOONBEAMS.
DEAREST MAMMA,--When you hear of all I have to tell you you will wonder
I can write so quietly.
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